departure

Good morning, it's five o'clock, this is your wake up call.
I did not order a wake up call! I hardly slept…
Well get going, you said you were stuck as to what to pack.

I am. I cannot decide. It’s cold and hot at once, I need different things for hiking, for working, for biking, for beaching, for riding the iron rooster. Late last night, I stared at my closet for one hour then, disgusted, fell asleep.

Me, I had no problem..
You’re only going for two weeks, I’m going for two months!
…I took out all the shirts that didn’t have holes, as you don’t like holes, and stuffed them along with clean underwear, into a duffle bag…

So starts my trip. The bus leaves in two hours and I am stuck on what to pack. Moreover, the post office and I are in dispute. They only hold mail for thirty days. What’s the matter with people, doesn’t anyone take off for two months anymore? I do not understand Americans.

In the meantime, Ed, my singularly original travel companion is calling again.
My asparagus is up!
Great. Jeans or chinos, jeans or chinos…
You have to try some before you leave.

It is 9 in the morning, the bus leaves in two hours and I am not asparagus inclined. But take a New York boy and place him on a (mini) farm and he gets, well, excited when things come up.

So if I miss the bus it is because I am steaming asparagus and steaming at the post office and wondering what to pack. God, what a sunny day.

eve of

Not a time to get all sentimental, is it? I’m leaving tomorrow morning. My God, I am leaving tomorrow morning????

The last time I packed my bags and zipped off to Europe for several months was when I graduated from college. Holed up in the mountains of Italy in February and March, I soon became restless. I spent as much time away from my rented room as in it. Get me out of this beautiful Alpine valley!! I want people, streets, chaos!

That was then. Now I want to delight in tranquility and peace, so that the biggest dilemma becomes which olive oil to favor and which lemon tart to come back to in the afternoon.

Still, to be gone that long…

I ran between office and Library Mall and Bascom Mall and thankfully, no real mall. I packed up my one little plant and gave it away, I zipped and zapped through my big list and made it smaller.

It’s good that I am leaving at a time where the sun is so strong and spirit of this place is so palpable. It’ll make me eager to be back. In two months. Gulp.



badger spirit



badger spirit, cont'd



badger spirit, cont'd


At the end of the day, with a friend:


another red spirit

state colors

Hey, Wisconsin loyalists, we are in the middle of spirit week! Of course, if you’re visiting from elsewhere and you don’t know this, it may appear that we are batty. Tuesday is the designated red and white day. On Monday, Bucky was on the hill and a bagel ‘n juice breakfast was on the house.



breakfast with bucky badger on bascom




...because it's spring



I took a break this past evening to celebrate being frantically busy. This may not make sense to anyone else, but breaks come naturally to me. I have a plateful and yet I leave town for a different kind of plateful. The good people in Lake Mills who taught me ice sailing back in January were grilling and I was itching to have fantastically flavorful piece of meat and this:


another shade of green

…overlooking the now very unfrozen this:



ice free


My host volunteers with the Lake Mills Fire Department and so we took a hike to examine up close the guts of a fire station. Inside, all is spiffy and red and ready to go.





To me, the job appears stressful to the max. But the wife of our host said that her fears were not that a fire ceiling will come crashing down on him, but that he’ll get run down while speeding to the fire station. Tough cloth protects you from heat. What do you have to protect you from crazy drivers?



sizing things up


The hike back reminded me that at this time of the year it takes a while for the darkness to roll in. And when it does, it’s still kind of pretty and inviting.

go to sleep you weary hobo

It’s a song. Switch a word (traveler for hobo) and you have a Madison eatery. Or a bar. Or something. You also have me, a person who is weary just from facing questions about how the months ahead will play out. I have great thoughts about it, but very little idea about how the contours and pieces will fit into place.

At the Weary Traveler last night, I ate my Andes sandwich and I drank a German beer and I thought that I need to get going. Tired of planning, of lists, of trying not to forget details. My weariness will leave. When I am finally on the road. In a couple of days.

more april observations

more april observations

One reason why I had always thought that I was well suited for the “house in southern France” idea (or in Italy – take your pick) is because I think I’d do well in the area of hospitality. Not so much the kind where everyone is suddenly a close friend and writes you that they’re on the way for a lengthy visit (as recounted by the infamous Peter Mayle), but the kind where on a warm evening (and because it is the south, there would be many such warm evenings) friends and neighbors would be welcome to congregate around my table, conveniently positioned outdoors under maybe a grape trellis or by a pear orchard. Not unlike this orchard, with tall grasses and budding branches, only this one is just outside Madison:



April orchard


In my dreamy images, I would not necessarily have to cook – people would bring stuff – but it would be at my table and I would freely pour wine and I would happlily dust off surfaces and light candles and wash linens. Indeed, I’d look forward to setting the table. Not unlike this one, only this one is at the loft, on a lovely April Saturday evening:



April evening at the loft


When a bunch of bloggers and assorted others put together a birthday dinner for me at the loft last night, I must admit, heaven could not have invented a better set up. I cooked nothing and barely touched a dish cloth. They did it all. I’ll step back from text and let a few photos describe the night. I did fail to catch the Kodak moment when someone at the table said “oh, look, Tonya is on fire! Do something!” In the heat of the moment my hand left the camera. Tonya herself received nary a singe, though she did admit to having felt a touch warm when leaving the stove. I suppose we should all pay attention to what our bodies tell us.

One last comment. I had wanted to do the noble thing and tell people not to bring gifts, especially since they were already providing food and drinks. I apologize for my utter piggishness in not stating that. But when each and every gift then turns out to be a gem of thoughtfulness, this does not increase one’s motivation to do the gallant thing in the future.

I can only say thank you, here, on Ocean. Especially to the author of the Tonya Show, who spearheaded the entire evening and cooked up a storm for it. What a fantastic pack of friends these guys are! No, really, you have no idea.



the work of others



the labor of Columnist Manifesto's "B"



start with Bozzo-Lee savory cheesecake and Tonya Show margaritas



Tonya Show first course



Tonya Show Moroccan chicken



Althouse cake



happy Ocean author



"tiny thoughts" and soon-to-be tiny one, finger-licking good



Althouse at dusk



Marginal Utility and company



The Tonya Show: mastermind behind the event



Ocean author: the last puff. It's chocolate. Really.

april observations

Someone asked me very recently – what are birthdays for anyway? Everyday should be like a birthday, celebrating the people we like and love.

Yeah, right.

Truth is we don’t. Stuff happens. You quit emailing. You develop an edge. You think murderous thoughts about those who have caused you grave injustices. You forget to check in, to say the nice comment. Sometimes you can’t get yourself to admit you even like a person – their insanity being so evident in your eyes.

Birthdays are different.

I don’t know if my Mom reads Ocean. She did once and thought it sheer madness, so she probably stopped. But if you do, on the sly, this note is for you, Mom: thank you for these:

forget about the middle, but do start with a great beginning and finish it off with a superb punchline

That’s my birthday wisdom. It has nearly always worked.

It helps that I was born in this second half of April. Imagine, a light breeze, trees in full spring swing now...




Forget reasons why you should not do this: get an early morning latte at your favorite café, idle a way a few moments, then finally settle down to get some stuff done.




In the evening, close the computer and go out somewhere special. Who cares if it’s a long drive away. For example, I’m choosing to eat in Chicago. I saw this guy cook on TV. I’ve been curious. Vietnamese-French. Wouldn’t you spend 4 hours on a bus (then cab, then car) to eat a cool meal with your pal of 30 years? Without a doubt.








About the middle. Middles don’t count.Think of it: middle of the semester, middle of the road, I’m in the middle of something! Middle-man, mid-life crisis, don’t put me in the middle! Even midsummer night isn’t really about the middle of the summer, it's about a date in June... give me a break.

Concentrate on the beginning and the end. The rest? It's just filler.

onwards

There’s no question. There will be no sanity in the week ahead. None at all. I’ve hit that time period before the blast off, you know, when the space people turn on the clock and you get to see seconds being tossed aside, one after another, until there is nothing left but zero.

And in this period of seconds, minutes, hours before my departure a week from today, I am finishing the semester and making lists of all that must be attended to before my run out of here. I don’t pretend to cross things off the list. I just add.

Because I will be gone eight weeks, I primarily want to attend to people in the time before I leave. People with whom I can celebrate all sorts of stuff – earth day, for example. Or enduring friendship. I place no limits on what causes joy and calls for champagne.

I put into the sidebar the chronology of my travels, but no dates. I leave there an element of uncertainty, but also predictability. If I am posting from Dubrovnik, you’ll know where I am heading next and what has already transpired.

It’s not all play. I am indeed working some during this trip and that accounts for a destination or two. But there are a lot of saved vacation days being used up in the weeks ahead. A lot. I am, finally, reaching into my European soul and taking time off. I need it. You need it too, I know. I will take it for you.

Is it all solo travel? Nope. I will have my traveling companion at my side for the first couple of weeks and my family the second couple of weeks. After that it’s just me. Riding train after train, with my camera and my laptop.

This is my present to me, to start me off as a 53-year old. You know, ‘cause it’s significant. I was born in’53 and I turn 53 in a minute. Surely that means something, no?

notes on a day without borders

Look outside. Ohhhhh, warm. A Mr.B kind of morning. I am at an appointment on the far west side. Hurry up, doc, I have to be at a Very Important Lunch with a Foreign Delegation at UW’s Grainger Hall (some 8 miles away) in an hour.

Doc looks at me and says: don’t forget to use sunscreen in Sicily. Here, let me google something for you…
Tic toc tic toc. Hurry up doc.
She types in “best sunscreen in Europe…” here we go!
Hurry up, I need to fly like the wind… I’ll use your “Best in Europe” sunscreen, I swear.

I’m flying alright. Down Old Sauk hill, onto bike path. Oh, look at that, I am passing Borders. I need a Sicily map. Quick look: no such map here. Pedal pedal pedal. Oh, Whole Foods. One minute. One minute to pick up greens for supper. Oh, and apples. And strawberries. Ooops, that took three minutes. Okay, so I’m going to be late. The Very Important Lunch is at 11:45, I’ll be there by noon. Yeah.

At noon, I chain Mr.B to a rack and fly inside, bags dangling, hair flattened by helmet, pants still rolled up. Where the hell is this lunch? No, not in the deli on the third floor. Oh help! I call the secretary of the UW Very Important Administrator hosting it. Upstairs on the fifth.

I walk in, apologetically. Two dozen Very Important people and little me. Hmm. And they all speak French. No one has rolled up pants. Ah.

Introductions. I am the president of… I am the chair of… I am little me. Let me give myself a title: I am directing an exchange program in your country.

I listen to snippets of conversation: this is the chair of so and so (or president or director, head honcho, you get the picture) and is he ever a Francophile! But no, not true. I am a Francophile in that I go to France every year to eat. I speak the language of menu items.

Yes, France. And food and France. Certainment. Madame says: last night our entire group mostly spoke of food...

I look at the cheese slices and rolled up lunchmeats and wonder if they’ll be talking about food again after this meeting. I hope they’ll be talking about the chocolate dipped strawberries and not the rolled up lunchmeat slices.

Back on Mr. B now, another meeting to go to at 2, but hold on there, I need five minutes for a UBS latte. Oh, a UBS stop means I can look for a map. Bingo! Sicily in my bag. Computer under my elbow (needed for my next two meetings). Briefcase dangling on a strap. Helmet snapped onto purse, camera on another strap. Jacket under arm. Extra hot skim latte, no foam, between two fingers.

Why is my day so fragmented and without borders or boundaries?



pre-dusk, from the loft

can’t be done

I set a goal: write five exam questions per day. I wake up early, work through my lectures, meetings, emails and then finally I am ready. Question number one. No, wait, there is an errand that needs to be run. On the Capitol Square. Sunshine? Let me walk over. Reflecting on how pretty the day is…



reflecting


Perhaps a little movement? Why not spin out into the country? Just a few minutes down the road.. Ohhh, cool outside. Okay, I’ll work at my friend’s place. Comfortable now in the kitchen… But that tail of an overly affectionate cat, looking for love in all the wrong places: cat, get off my legal pad! Back and forth, back and forth. Clearly I need to take a break…



swooshing


And always, the country roads beckon.



tempting


It’s dusk now. I wrote two questions. Pedal back to the loft, coming around Monona Bay, yet another view of the white dome.



seducing


Madison and environs are a distraction at this time of the year.

dates and conversations

I had a meeting at Fair Trade Café on State Street this afternoon. I was almost late because I could not find a parking spot. For Mr.B. Why one should have to worry about parking a bicycle is a mystery. Unless you live in Madison and you understand that tearing up streets is a seasonal ritual. You would think we had the smoothest pavements ever, what with the constant road construction. We don’t. Tearing up streets is merely a seasonal thing. This particular block on State Street will remain discombobulated I estimate for about six months. Meantime, sidewalk coffee drinking will be of this sort and bike parking will remain a problem.






On my morning bike ride, I encountered two ducks. This is not unusual by any means. Ducks are a common thing in town. These ducks made me pause enough to create a traffic problem on the bike path. They seemed to have a strong attachment to the view of Madison’s skyline. What a gorgeous spot for them to meet on their date! They are on a date, right?






Last night I spoke to my mother, a resident of Berkeley California. She enjoys conversing with me in winter when she can compare and contrast weather patterns. She has a particularly strong aversion to Wisconsin January temperatures. This conversation did not go so well. We have been having some gorgeous skies lately. And the third week of April finally wipes out the gray in favor of this:





It’s raining in Berkeley. A lot, I hear. It’s terrible to admit to inferior weather when you are a Californian. I tried to be especially nice on the phone. One shouldn’t gloat too much, it’s unbecoming.

baby cows and apple orchards and prairie dogs

Admittedly, the secular aspects of Easter are entirely pleasurable. Bunnies, chiks, pink and lilac eggs, willow buds, tulips, chocolate – am I leaving something out?

Still, when your own chickies fly the coop and move to distant places, you’re not going to get all bunny and basket about life, are you? Effectively, secular Easter becomes just another day.

And yet, when I got on my computer this morning and downloaded photos from yesterday’s bike ride, they did strike me as terribly, well, Easterish.

It was a glorious ride. For one thing, I survived it. I’d been warned: Nina, it’s at least twelve miles of hills and vales from Fitchburg to Paoli. Nina, you hate hills. Mr. B hates hills.

All true and yet the idea appealed to me. Bike over to a small little town, get a cup of coffee and a pastry, an ice cream maybe, bike back. The day was perfect for it.

Twenty eight miles later I was back, with photos of spring and a Starbucks latte under my belt. Not exactly from Paoli. The only refreshment you could get in Paoli that did not have either heaps of sugar or alcohol in it was this:



Paoli pump


So on a detour back, we gave in to the only café within a twenty mile radius that keeps decent hours: opens at 5:30 in the morning, closes at 10 night, every day of the year. Sigh. Another Starbucks success story.

But forget the Fitchburg latte for a minute and look through the lens of a ride to Paoli. Over hills and vales, past peering eyes of local inhabitants. I’m told I’m a duffer: a casual cyclist, relying on three speeds, singing to myself, dangling a camera. Yeah, and proud of it.



prairie dog, making sense of the duffer



a highlander watching me, sort of



baby highlander



highlander scratching his back



birches: last week's gray is today's green



getting the apple trees in shape



...and the soil ready for spring planting


Happy Easter, if this is your day to revel in the potent moods and flavors of spring

shades of blue

STORM UPDATE: So the roof over the loft held steady. True, flakes of the older roof came crashing down as a result of yesterday’s hail storm, as if some spirits of darkness went through and liberally doused the place with buckets of charred and blackened logs. Nothing that a few hours of dusting and vacuuming could not pick up. An apologetic landlord sent notes promising help with the clean up. After I had already cleaned up.

Of course, it was a vivid reminder of how this supposedly gentle season can deliver some forceful punches. A lesson that seems to have left my conscience by the morning, as I set out for my Mr. B ride (a habit now, so that I can fit into stuff come summer).

I have enough sense to look over at the skies toward the horizon. Wow, that is one deep shade of blue. One hill of puffing later, I look up again. Wow, that is bluer that blue! Indeed, it is no longer blue. More like dark and ominous.

How unfortunate.

And how remarkable that whatever system was passing through decided to loop around Mr. B and me, so that indeed, my only problem was battling the wind, skirting branches and twigs and other storm debris on the bike path and avoiding bold and brazen geese.

By late afternoon all was over and done with. The sky turned a cornflower blue. Come out, come out. Oh, spring.



morning: from John Nolen Drive



morning: lake Monona



goose on the loose



afternoon: from Monona Drive